What Marikee Taught Me: Navigating Education for ELL Students
“I speak―not for myself, but so those without a voice can be heard.”
Malala Yousafzai, United Nations, 2016
The Story that Stayed With Me
In the stillness of early morning, the island wakes slowly carrying a rhythm that is simultaneously ordinary and profound. The sun warms the rooftops as soft light stretches across narrow roads, while the hum of kitchens and the smell of breakfast permeate the air.
The school bell rings, familiar and clear, calling children to another day of learning. Children begin rushing off to school. Some are waiting impatiently for the school bus, while others hurry along familiar neighborhood paths. They hop and skip through the gate, greeting friends, teachers, and school staff. Happy faces greet a brand new day of hope, opportunity, and growth. It is easy to assume that this energy reflects ease and belonging. It is within this rhythm that I first noticed how differently some children step into the day. For some students, the day begins with more weight than wonder.
Marikee1 is one of them.
Marikee is my 9-year-old neighbor and relatively new to the island. Her first language is Creole, which contributed to her being identified as an English Language Learner. With her mother away in the mainland United States seeking prenatal care, she is cared for by her father, who works early shifts. In Caribbean culture, adults take collective responsibility for the care and support of younger members of the community when families are navigating challenges. On some mornings she arrives at school early, dropped off on her father’s way to work. Other mornings, she manages her own routine quietly and deliberately. When I have had the opportunity to take her to school, I’ve noticed apprehension in her silence as she goes off to face the day. On afternoons when I am fortunate enough to sit with her as she works through homework, I observe the same careful pauses before speaking—and the spark in her eyes when something finally makes sense. These are not dramatic moments, but they reveal a quiet determination and a longing to be understood.
Her presence has taught me to pay closer attention to what is not easily visible: the way resilience can look like weariness, or how determination can show itself in the simple act of showing up day after day.
While this narrative centers on one child, it speaks to broader questions about how educators recognize, interpret, and respond to the experiences of English Language Learners in our schools.
I teach high school science in the U.S. Virgin Islands, where classrooms carry more than content—they carry culture, language, history, and responsibility. Although my daily work is with adolescents, my understanding of education has been shaped just as deeply by younger learners whose lives intersect with mine beyond the walls of my classroom. It is from this wider lens—as an educator, observer, and at times caregiver—that this reflection emerges.
[P]articipation is often shaped by expectations of immediate verbal expression, which can unintentionally marginalize students who are navigating linguistic transitions or cultural norms[.]
Seeing Her Story in the Data
What I observed in Marikee reflects patterns long documented in research on multilingual learners. In many classrooms, participation is often shaped by expectations of immediate verbal expression, which can unintentionally marginalize students who are navigating linguistic transitions or cultural norms that influence how they engage in learning (Lee, 2012).
Day after day, Marikee’s struggles seemed to blend into the background rhythm of a busy school. Her quiet presence was not absence, but a form of careful engagement that required time, trust, and attentive support to become visible. One afternoon, she asked for help with a math problem. We worked through it slowly, step by step, until her eyes lit up with understanding. That subtle, unmistakable moment reminded me that growth does not always emerge in the classroom. Sometimes, it unfolds in spaces where learners feel safe enough to ask questions, take risks, and make meaning at their own pace.
Research consistently indicates that multilingual learners’ experiences in school are shaped not only by teaching strategies, but also by broader cultural and linguistic expectations that influence how participation and competence are understood (Cummins, 2000; Valdés, 2001). Extended time, thoughtful scaffolding, and integrated language-content instruction are essential conditions for meaningful engagement (Farbman, 2015; Penke, 2018). More recent scholarship further suggests that when supportive environments are intentionally cultivated, young multilingual learners can demonstrate significant growth in both language development and academic achievement (Gillon, 2023).
Seen through this lens, Marikee’s persistence reflects a broader possibility for reimagining what intentional support looks like in contemporary classrooms. When educators view multilingualism as a strength rather than a limitation, new forms of participation and understanding can emerge (Paris & Alim, 2022; Herrera et al., 2023). With intentional emotional, linguistic, and academic scaffolding, multilingual learners contribute perspectives that deepen collective inquiry and expand the boundaries of classroom discourse (Lucas & Villegas, 2013).
What emerges from both observation and research is not a narrative of deficiency, but an opportunity to reconsider how schools recognize and respond to linguistic diversity. Marikee’s experience illustrates how growth can be cumulative, relational, and deeply influenced by the cultural climate. Her story, while personal, echoes a larger educational reality that calls for thoughtful reflection on how systems interpret resilience, participation, and belonging.
None of this is critique.
Instead, it is an invitation to pause within the routines of schooling and consider how students’ experiences shape the possibilities we create for learning.It is an invitation to slow down—to notice what school feels like through the eyes of the quiet learner. To ask: what possibilities might we be overlooking?
Sometimes [meaningful change can] begin with a pause, a story, or a question that prompts deeper reflection.
Whether we’re in classrooms, leading schools, or shaping policy, each of us holds a part of the responsibility for creating environments where multilingual learners can thrive. Meaningful change does not always begin with sweeping reform. Sometimes it begins with a pause, a story, or a question that prompts deeper reflection.
I share this not as an expert, but as an educator still learning—as someone who believes that noticing matters and listening matters. When we truly listen to students like Marikee, we do more than identify their needs. We begin to recognize their strengths, their resilience, and their capacity to shape the learning communities around them.And that, I believe, is worth sustained attention.
Holding on to Hope
Sometimes I picture Marikee at her desk, her hand wrapped around a pencil, leaning forward as she begins to understand. That image reminds me that behind every statistic is a child carrying both potential and responsibility—often more than is visible in the routines of school life. English Language Learners are not problems to be solved but strengths to be recognized. They bring resilience, perspective, and cultural knowledge that enrich classroom communities. When these strengths are acknowledged through responsive pedagogy, students are more likely to develop both linguistic confidence and academic agency (Gillon, 2023; Lucas & Villegas, 2013).
The work of Penke (2018) further suggests that effective support for English Language Learners requires more than isolated instructional strategies. It involves recognizing students as whole individuals whose social, emotional, and cultural experiences shape how they engage with academic content. Observing Marikee reinforced this understanding for me. Without consistent scaffolds, students’ potential can remain hidden beneath the surface of classroom routines.Seen through this lens, moments of quiet growth take on new meaning. They become indicators of trust, belonging, and cognitive engagement. When classrooms are structured to support multilingual learners intentionally, participation expands in ways that are both measurable and deeply human. These insights invite educators to reconsider how success is defined and how learning is recognized.
From Reflection to System Response
Through my reflections, I began to think more deeply about how systems can respond intentionally to the needs of multilingual learners. In the U.S. Virgin Islands, the Bilingual and Second Language (BSOL) Program offers one example of how coordinated support can translate research into meaningful practice. Rather than positioning language development as an isolated responsibility, the program emphasizes shared accountability among educators, leaders, and community partners. BSOL initiatives prioritize sustained professional learning, culturally responsive instructional strategies, and collaborative structures that help teachers integrate language development with academic content. Through mentorship, instructional toolkits, and targeted professional development, educators are supported in creating classrooms where multilingual learners’ identities and experiences are recognized as assets rather than obstacles. In observing the principles underlying BSOL, I have come to recognize how system-level commitments can shape everyday learning experiences. When professional learning becomes reflective and responsive, teachers are better positioned to interpret silence with care, scaffold participation intentionally, and create inclusive routines that support both language development and academic growth. These systemic efforts do not replace the importance of individual relationships; rather, they create the conditions in which those relationships can flourish.
I carry what I have witnessed. And I hold onto the hope that we are all capable of moving a little closer to what every child deserves. Perhaps, in reflecting on stories like Marikee’s, we might begin to ask what it would take to ensure that no child has to navigate their learning journey in silence.
A Final Reflection
Noticing matters.
Listening matters.
And hope? It lives in the quiet.
It lives in early arrivals,
In hesitant hands raised,
In questions asked slowly.
It lives in pauses,
In glances that linger,
In a child choosing to try again.
And perhaps,
if we lean in—just a little closer—
we’ll hear it.
Not the sound of silence,
but the whisper of possibility
waiting to be met.
1Marikee is a pseudonym used to protect the student’s identity.
Citation
Ravalier, M. (2026). What Marikee taught me: navigating education for ELL students Kaleidoscope: Educator Voices and Perspectives, 13(1), URL NEEDED.